Shattered
by piaffe417
Summary: She threw her Santa Claus mug across the room on the day that she heard his name taken in vain.


**Author's Note**: I'm working on another story at the moment and this onerudely butted in today after I watched a tape of Vincent and Chris's interview on _Today_. For those that missed it, Vincent basically said that viewers get to go along for the ride as Goren slowly goes crazy. This is my short little take on it – all tied up in a metaphor if I've done this correctly. Sorry for the downer but it's my current mood. Review if you're so inclined, while keeping in mind that these characters aren't mine and never will be. (If I ever win the lottery, though, I might make Dick Wolf an offer...)

She threw her Santa Claus mug across the room on the day that she heard his name taken in vain. It spiraled through the air as though it had become a football upon its launch, the handle spinning and whizzing round and round with increasing speed as it completed its terminal arc, narrowly missing the head of the detective who'd made the verbal sleight and crash-landing with a terrific shatter against the opposite wall. He ducked in chagrined haste and self-preservation, then shouted expletives as the shards of pottery exploded around him, leaping from his seat as though stung.

"Dammit Eames!" he cried, eyes darting side to side as he waited for his fellow Major Case detectives to take up his charge and glare at the petite and seething woman whose eyes burned him from the other side of the bullpen.

But their support did not come. Instead, he was met with downcast glances and faces that gave him an appraising once-over to make sure that he was not physically harmed, then fell back to their tasks, refusing to acknowledge him further. He had ostracized himself with his comment, a snide remark that was offhanded and thoughtless and therefore cut deeplyfrom its lack of sensitivity. Whether or not his coworkers found it true or amusing or a combination of the two was irrelevant; Alex Eames found it to be neither and she was well-respected by everyone in the squad so there was no doubt whose side would be taken.

Mike Logan was the first detective to break from his frozen stance, marching over to the offending detective and murmuring, "How about a coffee break, Griffith?"

"But, I…" he began to stammer, still visibly shaken by the image of Santa Claus in all his chubby-cheeked holiday glory flying at his head with lethal speed.

"Take a half hour," Logan patted his shoulder and turned away to indicate that no further conversation was warranted. "I'll tell the captain where you've gone."

His humiliation complete, Griffith slunk to the elevators, jacket in hand. Conversations returned to normal as soon as he had vanished around the corner and Eames sighed, then made a move to sweep up the mess she'd made.

Captain Deakins suddenly materialized and stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. "Don't worry about it, Alex. Let the cleaning crew get it."

Her burning eyes met his as though to argue, then fell as she realized that the battle wasn't worth it. All of the emotion that had risen in her and uncoiled the moment that she had released the mug had vanished, leaving her deflated and apathetic. Silently, she turned from him and from Logan and returned to her desk, seating herself before her laptop with a resigned air and typing in the name of the suspect she'd been looking up prior to the mug incident. Deakins returned to his office without another word and Logan headed off to holding to retrieve a prisoner. Neither gave any indication that anything was amiss.

It took her three times to get the spelling right before she could hit "enter" and run the scan; it wasn't easy to see the screen through the tears that had begun to well in her eyes. She hadn't even liked the damn mug – it was gaudy and too overly cheery for her taste. (Honestly, who liked to look at a perpetually-happy Santa Claus face three hundred and sixty-five days a year – especially _before_ ingesting any of the caffeine held within the mug's ceramic confines?) But she'd kept it because Bobby had given it to her on their first Christmas as partners. It had been filled with chocolates and peppermints and he had bestowed it upon her with the nervousness of a schoolboy presenting his teacher with a shiny red apple. It had never occurred to her to turn him down- they were partners and besides, she could tell that he'd tried very hard to get a gift that he knew she'd like but that wasn't too personal. (She'd gotten him a gift certificate to Barnes & Noble, the ultimate in impersonal giving.)

And long after the candy had been eaten and then worked off in multiple sessions at the gym, the mug had stayed. She'd turned it into a pen holder, a stash for her much abused yellow highlighter, and it had become a fixture on her desk, a part of her daily life that she was used to seeing every time she looked up from her paperwork.

Now, just like Bobby, it was gone – shattered into a hundred pieces that could never be made whole again.

"Bobby Goren used to come up with crazy ideas like that – and look what happened to him." That was the comment that had escaped Griffith's pinched lips and caused Alex to instantly stop what she was doing, rise to her feet, and grab the nearest thing to hand – the smiling Santa mug. She hadn't even emptied out the pens first, simply sent it hurling towards Griffith's sneering face in an effort to blot out the viciousness in his tone. The motion was without thought and without remorse and it wasn't until she sat back down that she fully realized what she'd done. She'd attacked a fellow police officer – a fellow _detective_, for goodness sakes!

And she'd used Father Christmas as a weapon.

The entire event would be laughable if Bobby were around. It would elicit one of his rare but famous grins and a chuckle from somewhere deep inside, as well as a vow to purchase a new mug to replace the old one. (He'd probably tell her that it was worth the money just to see the expression on Griffith's face.)

Yes, it would have beenquite humorous ifit didn't hurt so much, if it didn't stir up all of the emotions thatAlex hadsuppressed ever since the day Bobby had gone to join his mother at Carmel Ridge. She supposed that part of her had known all along that Bobby was destined to inherit his family's curse – supposed that he had known too, though they'd both chosen to ignore it. He'd studied schizophrenia with the fervor of someone who believed that knowledge held the power to inoculate against even the harshest of diseases and he'd become an expert in the latest therapies and treatments. For her part, Alex watched him carefully as he flirted with the line between sane and not with such casual flair that she knew he could not always see it. Knowledge, therefore, could not bring Bobby Goren the type of vision thatwas required to keep him on the right side of the line.

And after a while, neither could Alex.

She never tried to pinpoint the moment that he left her because it was irrelevant in the long run. Knowing the "when" didn't change the "what." "Why" wasn't even important – it could have been caused by genetics or the job or bad luck (or a combination of the three) and the only fact that had any weight in the end was that it had happened. Bobby had fallen. Alex was without a partner – or a best friend.

Now she was also without the first gift he'd ever given her. The second gift had been his trust and she still had that - most days, anyway.

She visited him regularly, reveled in the good days when they could rehashtheir old storiesand she despaired in the days when he ranted and raved in a much more manic manner than he'd ever done in the interrogation room. And as she dreaded entering the halls of Carmel Ridge and then dealt with the feeling of being utterly bereft that accompanied her leaving the facility, she realized that she'd come to understand the ups and downs that had made up her partner's life outside of their job. The regular trips had once been a part of his routine and now they were a part of hers. Somehow they'd come full circle without ever meaning to.

Yet understanding him made her miss him all the more – and now she didn't even have the stupid Santa Claus mug to remind her of him.

Fleetingly and feeling foolish, she glanced across the room to where the destroyed mug lay in a pile of red and white rubble and wondered if it could somehow be salvaged. Seeing the bright red handle sticking out amongst the shards and white dust, however, Alex quickly realized that the situation was hopeless. The mug was a lost cause.

Luckily she made it to the ladies' room before the tears began to flow freely, maintaining her composure just long enough to slam the stall door and latch it behind her. And for once she was glad to be one of the few women on the floor, for it meant that she could cry for as long as she wanted. She lost track of time as she cried for Bobby, for the loss of his dazzling brilliance and tender nature, for the loss of the mug that she hadn't realized she cared for. Most of all, though, she cried for herself – for what she'd had and what she'd lost. The mug had been sacrificed in a moment of fury that was of her ownmaking; Bobby had been lost for no good reason other than the fact that none of the drug therapies available seemed to provide relief. Neither was salvageable with the current tools at Alex's disposal: Krazy glue and love.

When she had cried until there seemed to be no more tears left in her body, Alex emerged from the stall, splashed cold water on her face, and returned to the bullpen. In the corner, a janitor with a broom and dustpan was sweeping up the last traces of the Santa mug.

"If only it was that easy," she muttered to herself, then collected her blazer from its hook behind her desk and headed to the elevators. She was off to visit Bobby – and maybe if she was lucky, there would be a red handle sticking out of the rubble for her to grab hold of today.

And maybe there really was a Santa Claus too.


End file.
